


I'm All Right

by Primarina (PastelBrachypelma)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angelic Lore, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale to the Rescue (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Caretaking, Comfort Food, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/M, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Married Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Married Couple, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Monsters, Old Married Couple, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protectiveness, Rescue, Serious Injuries, listen ok i love these idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23430787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelBrachypelma/pseuds/Primarina
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't like being a soldier. But he will become one if he has to.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> MIND THE TAGS! I do not think any depictions are particularly graphic, and they are very brief, but if you are upset by injuries and blood, then this may not be the fic for you. Take care of yourself first and foremost! ilu.

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale’s cry was desperate and full of pain, tears swimming into the corners of his eyes. The spear had gone right into Crowley’s stomach, lodging itself somewhere between his internal organs and ribs. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion: red blood from his corporation as well as true demon blood, so red it almost looked like black ink, trickled out of the wound as Crowley fell in an unconscious heap to the ground. 

“What have you done?” Aziraphale sobbed, falling to his knees beside Crowley, not giving a jot if blood got on his trousers. His hands fluttered over Crowley, checking for serious injuries. 

The foolish young demons snickered to each other. “Told you it would be easy to fell an angel,” the ringleader told their lackeys. “Just take out his little demon pet, and all will be well.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. Rage boiled within him, and he quite forgot that Anathema and Newt had been with them while they walked. His glorious white wings spread, all six of them, his many eyes appearing as his limbs began to look more like flaming wheels than human limbs at all. When he looked up at the demons again, his eyes were blown out completely, as bright as staring into stage lights, no visible pupil. More eyes appeared on his cheeks and forehead, all glaring at the demons. “Fools,” Aziraphale’s voice echoed and boomed with angelic power. Retired or not, he was still a Principality, more powerful than the archangels he had reported to for so long. “How dare you lay a finger on my husband!” 

The demons sputtered, cowering before the wrath of an angel of the Lord, and tried to retreat into the ground. Aziraphale, raising up into the air, raised a hand. The earth obeyed him and spit the demons back out into the mortal plane. The furious angel made a complicated motion with his hand and a flaming sword appeared. Not THE flaming sword; that one had ceased to obey him after years of being passed through human hands and belonging to War, but it felt the same in his hands. 

Aziraphale might have been out of practice, but he was still a warrior, and he lashed out like a woman scorned, slicing at the demons who were trying in vain to flee, a terrifying war cry echoing from his lips. It was a horrific sight to behold...if the humans could indeed look, which they could not, lest they be blinded. Angelic wrath is not something to be trifled with. 

When the last demon had been slaughtered, and inky blood dripped from the sword, Aziraphale lowered himself to the ground. But he couldn’t relax. His love was still injured, all the demons who had hurt him were gone, but he was still angry, angry at himself. He hated himself for failing to protect Crowley. Crowley, who still had so much trauma related to the Apocalypse and 6000 years of life on Earth, loving an angel who, only recently, had even dared to love him in return. The angel sobbed, tears of anger and pain flowing down his face like liquid gold. His entire body would burn him up, rage spilling out of him in bursts so that all the humans within ten miles were terrified without knowing why. Aziraphale’s non-corporeal form was like a supernova. It would devour him whole…

And then, a cool hand lightly gripped his arm.

“‘Zira,” Crowley slurred, swaying where he stood. As the angel turned, alight enough that he could smite Crowley easily with how weak the demon was, Crowley gripped the spear with both hands and pulled it out of him. He gasped in pain, blood flowing out like a river, coughing after it was over, rouged lips by contrast making the rest of him look horridly pale, almost blue due to the blood loss. He stumbled forward, unafraid, his hands finding Aziraphale’s holding fast though the holy light burned his fingers. 

“Aziraphale,” he murmured. His glasses had fallen off, so his eyes could be seen plainly. He had done his best to hold off the yellow in his eyes, trying to keep them as normal as possible, but his pupils were still quite dilated, showing the pain he was reluctant to give in to. 

The humans watched in awe as, slowly, Aziraphale’s holy light began to dim. Crowley smiled weakly, showing a flash of his serpentine fangs. It wasn’t purposeful, but when he lost track of himself, Crowley would become more snakelike, more like the serpent he was at his core. The demon rested a hand over Aziraphale’s cheek, leaving behind a tinge of blood as the burns turned to welts. “There you are,” he coaxed softly. “It’s all right, Aziraphale. I’m here. I’m all right. Shh.” 

Aziraphale was still trembling, but most of his corporeal form had returned. He wasn’t burning with holy light or fuming with rage, but he still had far too many wings and far too many eyes; some were closed under Crowley’s palm. “Crowley…” Aziraphale breathes, his voice still half on the ethereal plane, golden tears flowing from his many eyes, staining clothes already stained with blood. The blood of the one he loves the most. Which only made fresh tears fall. 

“I’m here, angel,” Crowley whispered, only enough for Aziraphale to hear. “Really here.” Using the last of his strength, the demon lifted himself up on his toes (blast Aziraphale’s angelic true form for being so bloody tall!) and locked their lips together. 

That, to the utter surprise of the humans present, seemed to release Aziraphale from guilt and wrath, for the angel kissed Crowley back, wings enveloping his husband, all white brilliance as the extra pairs faded away. Aziraphale’s golden tears became salty water, and his extra eyes closed, fading away beneath the skin. 

One must never forget that Aziraphale was a guardian, a warrior, a fearsome angel of God. Even Aziraphale forgot sometimes, when he was curled up with a good book and a perfect cup of cocoa, his demon husband asleep on the couch beside him, head in his lap, relaxed and soft without a care in the world. 

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale said in his human voice, trembling still as he held Crowley gently in his arms. “My love, I’m so sorry.” 

Crowley coughed again, blood spilling out from between his lips, and Aziraphale looked down to see his oxfords toe deep in a pool of swirling demonic and human blood. “Right,” Aziraphale said, businesslike, and snapped his fingers to clean the battlefield and himself. “Come, my wily serpent. Let’s get you patched up.” 

“‘D be nice, yeah,” Crowley slurred weakly as Aziraphale picked him up. “Don’t quite think my organs’re functioning at the moment.” 

“Poor dear,” Aziraphale cooed, lifting Crowley as easily as one light lift a child, adjusting around the wound in his chest with the practiced care of a wartime medic. Which he had been. For several wars, in fact. He looked at the two stunned humans. “Dreadfully sorry about all that. Won’t you join us for tea?” 

~

“That,” Anathema observed, “was fucked up.” 

“You could say that again,” Newt breathed, still a bit pale from shock. 

Aziraphale had been a whirlwind, fussing over Crowley with a speed too rapid to track with human eyes. Luckily, nothing major was harmed, though Crowley would be in no state to move for the next few weeks, which suited his slothful nature just fine. If it meant more time in their safe little cottage with his angel by his side, he couldn’t ask for anything more. 

Well, having his organs intact would be nice. He didn’t strictly need them, per se, but one gets into the habit after 6000 years of doing things like breathing and eating, and having a heartbeat. His lungs, stomach, and intestines all took a beating, and his ribs were cracked and broken from his fall to the concrete. He had burns as well from where he’d touched Aziraphale’s form, so he’d be unable to do much by hand until they healed. Still, it wasn’t all bad. 

Aziraphale had promptly passed out as soon as Crowley was comfortable. Their guests were set up in the master bedroom in two plush armchairs from the sitting room. Crowley apologized after attempting a miracle made him dizzy, and Anathema, after seeing a patch of red appear under the bandages on his stomach, assured the wounded demon she and Newt could manage tea themselves. Now, it was comfortable and quiet. Crowley was wearing a plush robe, sweatpants, and wool socks, propped up against a multitude of pillows Aziraphale had pulled from the ether. (Several department stores in the area would be shocked to find their supply of pillows had miraculously disappeared.) He looked as comfortable as someone with a grave injury could get; that is to say, despite being pale and looking sickly, his breathing accompanied by an uneasy wheezing noise, he was smiling, one hand running soothingly through Aziraphale’s white curls. The angel was curled up next to him, an arm around Crowley’s stomach, head on a slim shoulder, nose tucked into shoulder-length red curls. 

The demon chuckled fondly at Anathema’s observation. “He’s something, isn’t he?” The white bandages made a rasping sound as they brushed together; Crowley was mostly wearing bandages, after all. 

“Sure, that’s a way to put it,” Anathema groused, taking a sip of her tea. “Remind me never to get on his bad side.” 

Crowley tried to shrug, but yelped, making Aziraphale stir, but he relaxed as the demon resumed his petting. “Just don’t be a demon, trying to kill me,” Crowley spoke softly, wheezing between breaths. “He doesn’t get mad at anything else.” 

“You don’t say,” Anathema deadpanned. 

Silence, except for Crowley’s wheezing and Newt’s teacup rattling on the saucer. 

“Has he ever…” Newt began, fumbling with his words, “done...that...before?”

“The whole angelic wrath thing, you mean?” Crowley asked, flexing his wrist before tucking his fingers back into Aziraphale’s hair. “Not as such. First time I’ve seen it in centuries. Was never close enough to it before.” 

“But you stopped it,” Anathema pointed out. 

Crowley coughed weakly and smiled at Aziraphale’s sleeping form. “He doesn’t want to be a warrior. ‘S why he fled Heaven. Well,” he amended, admiring the black diamond engagement ring and the gold wedding band with “Forever Yours” engraved on it in Enochian sitting comfortably on his finger, “part of why he fled Heaven, anyway.” Exhausted suddenly, he leaned his head back against the pillows. “‘E’s a being of love, see. ‘S all you gotta do, to calm ‘im.”

“Right,” Anathema said, smiling despite herself. “C’mon, Newt. Let’s go.” 

“Wha?” Newt glanced up. “I haven’t finished my tea!”

“You can stay, if you like,” Crowley said softly. “If you don’t mind both of us sleeping, anyway.” 

“Oh,” Newt said as understanding dawned. “No, that’s quite all right, we’d best be on our way.” 

“We’ll pop in tomorrow,” Anathema promised, “see how you are.” 

Crowley grinned. “Awright. Ciao.”

Anathema and Newt bundled into Dick Turpin after putting their cups in the sink. Both humans let out a sigh of relief. 

“Glad that’s over,” Newt breathed, starting up the car with a rumble and a groan. 

“Yeah,” Anathema shivered. “The electricity in the air...it was unbearable!”

“D’ya think he’ll be all right? Crowley, I mean.” Newt asked. 

“Well,” Anathema began, looking out at the cottage as they pulled away, “if you ask me, he’s the safest out of all of us.” 

“Why’s that?”

“He’s got an angel watching over him.”

And sure enough, safe in their cottage in the South Downs, Crowley could sleep well and deep, knowing Aziraphale would be there when he awoke.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale felt guilty and on edge. He was concerned that Hell would try again while they were vulnerable, or worse: that Hell might tell Heaven. His holy blade had vanquished the demons...but he didn’t quite know if that merely discorporated the miserable creatures, or if they were well and truly gone. Heaven had never given him any clues about the answer, and Crowley had never been on the wrong end of a holy blade held by anyone except Aziraphale, which was better for everyone involved, really.

Crowley had spotted Aziraphale’s tenseness while the angel was changing his bandages. Despite how carefully and lovingly Aziraphale held Crowley’s hand as he wrapped the demon’s palm, the demon had known immediately that something was off, and it didn’t take much coaxing to fish it out.

“Love,” Crowley said gently, “Hell doesn’t encourage cooperation. If those demons had been sent by any of my former higher-ups, they’d know better than to send anyone while you were around. And,” he added, “demons may be demons, but we don’t make a fuss around humans. We leave that bit to Heaven.”

“I suppose you’re right, dear,” Aziraphale admitted with a tired sigh, gently patting Crowly’s hand. He wasn’t quite sure he believed they were fully safe yet, but after he strengthened the wards around their cottage, he felt much better. Besides, there would be plenty of time to discuss ways they could help each other stay safe later. Crowley needed his aid to heal and get well.

One of the things that distressed Aziraphale the most was that he could not nurse Crowley in the usual way. He couldn’t make Crowley’s favorite tea, or mix him a hot toddy, or cook his favorite soups and stews. The damage done to Crowley’s internal organs was massive, though not irreparable. It was an infernal weapon, but his injuries were not fatal. However, he couldn’t be healed by Aziraphale’s angelic powers, in part due to the weapon used on them, but largely because although the angel could heal his demon, he could not do so without side effects.

Normally, these side effects would be negligible. At worst, Crowley would feel a bit seasick or develop a slight fever. Usually, he would only feel a bit nauseous or dizzy during and for an hour or so after the process. A price well worth paying, in his opinion. But with Crowley being severely damaged and very weak, having lost a lot of his demon blood, which was more important than his corporation’s blood, Aziraphale healing him wasn’t something they could risk.

Crowley could heal himself, of course, but using miracles was difficult. He felt burned out, and even working on his injuries for a few minutes exhausted him completely. Aziraphale hovered, helping where he could, and Crowley rested. It was all he could do.

So that was how they spent their days. Aziraphale took care of the housework and the gardening. He washed the Bentley and made tea and actually dusted, for Crowley’s damaged lungs couldn’t stand the stuff, even though dust was comforting to them both, in a way. The angel kept busy, helping to bathe Crowley and change his bandages. And Crowley? Crowley worked on healing himself, bit by bit, and tried to let himself rest. He gave into Sloth and napped, watched telly and the abundance of streaming services, and let the angel fuss. Truly, it wasn’t so bad.

~

The bathroom was steamy and warm. Aziraphale sat on the lip of the tub, soft washcloth in hand and a parade of little soaps and oils lined up beside him while Crowley lay in the bath, dozing as the angel ran the cloth up and down his arm and around his shoulders, down towards his ribs.

“Your breathing’s getting much better, at long last,” Aziraphale observed after it had been quiet for some time, but for the gentle lapping of the bath water and Crowley’s slow breaths.

“Mm?” Crowley roused himself with a sigh, sitting up in the bath. “Wha didjya say? Sorry, ‘ngl, water’sss warm,” he mumbled, shaking himself awake. “Y’were sayin?”

“Your lungs,” Aziraphale replied. “They seem clearer. Not as much wheezing.” He let Crowley’s arm drop and began to tremble. “I was ever so worried. I haven’t heard you breathe like that since you went to China in 2012.”

Crowley took a deep breath in to test his lungs, then out. He could still feel a bit of rattling in them, but they worked again. His heart, whose function was connected to his other internal organs, had started to keep time a bit more regularly, too. Part of his fatigue was a lack of blood flow; after all, someone with a resting heartbeat will only want to rest. “Yeah,” he yawned. “Was workin’ on my lungs. Wanted to be able to breathe again.” He chuckled. “‘S weird, y’know. Not breathin. Took me until Egypt to get it down right, but when I lost the ability to, I missed it.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly. “Funny how we have nostalgia for functions we don’t technically need. Would you like me to wash your hair, darling?”

Crowley nodded, sliding down in the water again as Aziraphale carefully wet down his hair and began a slow, gentle massage. “Everything else’ll come in due time,” he promised. “‘Ve got more energy now that I can breathe again.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, knowing he shouldn’t nag Crowley about eating. Really, he knew his husband wasn’t as fond of eating as he was, but he also knew that, like their bodies had grown to miss oxygen, the demon’s body would miss food. And the angel had been holding off on cooking or eating while his love recovered, simply because he didn’t want to upset Crowley. Though, it was starting to take a toll on him.

When the bath was finished, Aziraphale helped Crowley out of the tub and dried him off with the utmost gentleness. It made Crowley blush, to be treated like a precious object like this. He rarely had reason to question Aziraphale’s love for him, especially these days, when they wore each other’s rings proudly, but moments like these reminded him of all the love that was directed at him. 

“Love?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale wrapped bandages around his hands. (The wound in his stomach was mostly healed and didn’t need quite as many bandages as it used to.) 

“Hm?” Aziraphale didn’t look up from his work.

“We still have that delicious wonton soup, don’t we? From that Chinese in town you love.”

“I think so, dear,” Aziraphale rose to his full height, a frown creasing his brow and making his lower lip plump out in a pout. “I haven’t touched it. Why do you ask? I didn’t think your stomach was healed enough.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then why…?”

“Angel,” Crowley clasped a bandaged hand around Aziraphale’s wrist, “I know you aren’t eating.”

“Strictly speaking, I don’t need to.”

“Well, you do. We both do.” Crowley smiled softly. “C’mon, luv. You need your strength.”

Aziraphale sighed, feeling his stomach twist hungrily as he thought of the delectable, warm soup sitting in the fridge. “I was so worried that I would tempt you.”

Crowley chuckled, shuffling back to lie on the bed. He was wrapped in cozy pajamas and a warm blanket. He was content enough like this, skin warm from his hot bath. “I like being tempted. Long as it’s you doin it.” He winked. “‘Sides. I like watchin’ you eat. You know that.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “All right, I shall go and fetch it.”

“Bring up some jasmine green tea with honey to go with it,” Crowley purred. “I love the smell of that tea. Reminds me of tea houses in Japan. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I do,” Aziraphale stepped away to the kitchen before he got too caught up and forgot what he was doing. His stomach was eagerly awaiting the food; it grumbled angrily at him as he warmed up the soup on the stove. He spooned it all into a large bowl and miracled up the teea Crowley had requested. 

He ate before Crowley unselfconsciously, because Crowley looked so in love while he watched the angel eat. Once their simple meal was finished, the demon curled up against Aziraphale’s side, sighing. 

“Thank you,” Crowley purred, yawning.

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea. The food had been exactly what he needed to restore him. He felt refreshed and ready to face another day, another week, another month of Crowley being ill. Or, well, not ill, per se. Injured. Wounded. Out of commission. One of those three. He ran his fingers through Crowkey’s curls fondly, smiling as the demon leaned up into the petting like a touch-starved kitten. “What for, dear?”

“For protecting me,” Crowley replied. “For makin me feel so safe. I’lov’you.”

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale smiled, miracling up a blanket and sheltering Crowley underneath it, tucking it around his sides so he felt warm while asleep. “So much, Crowley. More than words can say.”

“I know,” Crowley smiled before drifting off to sleep.

Aziraphale sat up and stayed watch all night. He might not have been able to say the words adequately, but he could always use his actions. It was said that those spoke louder than words, anyway.

~

True to his word, Crowley’s strength did start to return little by little. Aziraphale often found him sunning himself before the large window in their bedroom, half asleep from the warmth. He couldn’t walk very far, or for very long, as his ribs still pained him, but he seemed well on the mend. Aziraphale had never entertained the thought that Crowley would never walk again, but he was nonetheless relieved and exhilarated by Crowley’s progress.

It was midmorning on some unknown day of the week (it was hard to keep track of these things as an immortal). Aziraphale had stayed beside Crowley during the night, as the demon had developed a slight fever due to overexertion and the angel wanted to see to it that he slept deeply. Aziraphale still wasn’t one for sleeping. It wasn’t as if he never slept, just as it couldn’t be said that Crowley never ate, but he operated much like a human with insomnia; he would be up late, and then rise early. Such it was now.

Aziraphale was reading a light novel from his collection, propped up by pillows, feet crossed neatly at the ankles. Crowley was disrobing, moving carefully around his stiff ribs. The angel happened to glance up and he found himself admiring the view. 

Crowley’s back was all wiry muscles, well-defined lines, but it was all as slender and sinewy as the rest of his form. It was beautiful, with a tint like very milky coffee, a hint of a tan from spending time in the sun. Crowley was beautiful, and Aziraphale had always thought so. He never argued with those who thought he was gay, but the truth was that Aziraphale was attracted to Crowley, no matter what form or gender presentation he chose to exhibit. 

Before Crowley slipped a cozy jumper over his torso, however, Aziraphale noted that Crowley looked thinner than usual. Their corporations were, after all, subject to weight loss and gain. The serpentine demon had lost quite a bit of weight leading up to the Apocalypse and had never really gained it all back, but Aziraphale knew his lover hadn’t been showing his bones quite that obviously. It distressed him, especially because he wasn’t sure if Crowley had healed his internal organs yet.

“Ahh,” Crowley sighed deeply, sliding back under the warm covers, lying on his back with his arms behind his head. “Mmm...could get used to being this lazy.” He popped open one golden eye, grinning playfully at Aziraphale. “Better watch out, angel. Soon, I’ll be demanding to be waited on hand and foot, like a king.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale looked down his nose at his husband, just as playfully, “I would do so as soon as you asked.You of all people deserve my pampering and attention.”

“W-well…ngk,” Crowley sputtered, blushing. Aziraphale chuckled warmly, glad that even after all these years, he could still fluster his demon.

A calm washed over the room. Aziraphale primly turned a page of his book, Crowley rustled about, getting comfortable, and birds sang outside the window.

“My dear,” Aziraphale began, after hearing for the third time a soft gurgling sound from the direction of Crowley’s stomach, “I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve lost weight again.”

Crowley shrugged noncommittally. Like Aziraphale, he’d never been arsed about his weight, though he never failed to indulge when appetite struck him. “Suppose i have,” he said thoughtfully. “Stomach’s been healed for a few days now, and my liver and things have all been sorted.”

Aziraphale giggled a bit as Crowley stomach gurgled again. “I don’t suppose you’ve got an appetite yet, have you? I’ve been itching to make lamb stew again.”

“Hm, you know how to make an old snake purr,” Crowley hummed, tongue scenting the air. “Angel, where on Earth did you get fresh lamb? ‘S outta season, aint it?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” Aziraphale grinned.

~

They ate their stew in the bedroom because Crowley couldn’t manage the stairs, and it wasn’t the sort of recipe that could just be left to boil. The stew was medieval in origin, updated with a soft, delicate meat that Crowley (if somewhat guiltily) adored, but with all of the charm of an old world hearty stew; that is to say, nothing was wasted at all.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley purred as soon as the first bite touched his tongue. “This is absolutely divine. Better than Heaven by yards.”

“You flatter me,” Aziraphale demurred, taking a bite of his own. “I’m delighted you’re enjoying it regardless.”

“I am, yeah,” Crowley slurped at the broth. “Might go in for seconds, at this rate. ‘S stimulating my appetite.”

“Probably a good thing,” Aziraphale ventured to mention. “You’ve been a bit piquey since the Apocalypse. Or, rather, the Aborted Apocalypse.”

Crowley frowned in thought. “Suppose I’ve been sick a lot. Would’ve been able to walk by now, too, I think, with proper sustenance under my belt.”

“Not that I don’t think you’re beautiful,” Aziraphale interjected suddenly. “I love you in whatever form you choose to take and whatever weight you are,” He sat back in his chair, fussing with his lapels nervously. “I’m sorry...I’m probably worrying too much.”

“Angel,” Crowley soothed, resting a hand over his husband’s. “Love, it’s okay. I know. And I’m grateful, because good Lord is pretending to be strong exhausting.” They both chuckled a bit. “You can be concerned,” he went on, “while still loving me. You know I’ve never been particularly vain about my weight. I wasn’t responsible for all that awful dieting crap.”

“Good thing, too.” Aziraphale pressed gentle kisses to his knuckles, delighting in the flush that warmed Crowley’s skin. “And that really is all, dear. Though I must say, I’ve been itching to make all of your favorite soups for your recovery.”

“I’ll hold you to that, angel,” Crowley said, his eyes sparkling.

~

Since Crowley was now recovered enough to eat, Aziraphale decided to celebrate by cooking all of Crowley’s favorite meals. The demon was fond of rich, hearty, meaty dinners and diner-quality appetizers. (He was a fiend for a good mozzarella stick.) It was a good thing, too; hearty meals stuck to your ribs in the best way.

Truthfully, Crowley had never found himself feeling so hungry. Like Aziraphale’s relationship with sleep, he behaved more like a human doing one of those ridiculous juice cleanses...if the “juice” was wine, anyway. But as we’ve said before, he wasn’t one to fight a craving, or refuse to indulge when he wanted to. After all, just because his favorite of the Deadly Sins was Sloth didn’t mean that he wasn’t well acquainted with Gluttony. (Though he found Gluttony easier when he was in a serpentine form...something about swallowing an animal twice your size whole was deeply satisfying in a way he couldn’t explain.)

Even though Crowley couldn’t transform at the moment (it would take too much energy, and his form was too big for the bedroom),he could still enjoy the variety of meals Aziraphale prepared. The angel, well-versed in caring for ailing humans, had started slow with soups and stews. He eventually moved on to more complex dishes, once he was sure Crowley would appreciate them, and it almost seemed as if he was bragging about his skill in this field. 

Aziraphale wasn’t good with recipes, but due to his vast knowledge of tastes, scents, and flavor profiles, he could recreate dishes based on prior knowledge. And if the angel wanted to brag about it, Crowley was absolutely not going to complain.

The night before, Aziraphale had made a frankly amazing honey glazed roast duck, reminiscent of a Chinese New Year treat. Crowley had nearly made himself sick due to the richness of the dish because of how much he’d eaten! But it had been worth it.

Crowley awoke, as he often did, to the smell of breakfast. He pulled back the blankets and sat up, expecting there to be a tightness in his chest from his healing ribs. To his delight, he found none. The demon grinned, stretching his shoulders and arms out. Aziraphale would be pleased. 

The cottage’s bedroom was cold this time of year; the window let in a draft that never seemed to go away no matter what they did, by human methods or supernatural ones, so they’d accepted it as a fact of life. It only meant that Crowley dressed warmly, which he didn’t mind. He grabbed one of Aziraphale’s cable knit jumpers, a slate grey one the angel rarely wore (mostly because Crowley was wearing it), pulling it over his head. It slipped off one shoulder and was baggy everywhere on the demon’s slight frame, but it was deliciously warm, made of soft wool that wasn’t scratchy, and had the benefit of smelling like moth balls, vanilla, ink, and old books. In other words, it smelled like Aziraphale.

After throwing on some leggings (made more for the feminie corporation, but let’s be honest, Crowley never made an Effort unless humans were going to be seeing him without clothes), he walked to the staircase and took a deep breath. He hadn’t had good experiences with stairs. Despite it being only a small flight of steps, he’d find himself out of breath and weak from overexertion after only a few steps. Crowley took firm hold of the railing on both sides and carefully started down.

Aziraphale heard Crowley’s careful padding on the stairs and looked up from his work. “Are you all right, dearest? I’ll come and help you in a minute!”

“‘M fine, angel,” came the reply, a bit breathless. “Almost at the bottom.”

“All right, dove. Just don’t fall!” Aziraphale called, nonetheless monitoring carefully. 

But he needn’t have, because there Crowley was, breathless yes, but otherwise unharmed,standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Aziraphale jumped, not expecting Crowley to be there.

“Boo,” Crowley teased warmly, smirking.

“Oh! You rascal, you!” Aziraphale scolded, but he was smiling, too. “You’ve made it down the stairs!”

“Yes,” Crowley shrugged, letting out a weary breath. “Just don’t ask me to go back up them before breakfast.”

“I wouldn’t think of it, my dear.” Aziraphale strode up to Crowley, pulling him against his plush body for a kiss. Crowley melted into him in response, wrapping his long arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. They could have stayed like that forever. Every kiss felt like their first, a spark of light and warmth, safety and security, a thousand “I love you”s exchanged through shared breath. But alas, they had to break apart, because Aziraphale was cooking. The kiss left Crowley weak in the knees and dizzy from a lack of oxygen. (His lungs had a tendency to forget how to breathe when he was kissing Aziraphale.) 

Crowley stumbled forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s warm, plush stomach and digging his pointy chin into his shoulder. He nuzzled into Aziraphale’s collar, tasting as much as smelling him, the way his serpentine senses worked.

“Easy, love,” Aziraphale hummed, busy at the griddle. “Don’t burn yourself.”

“Ah,” Crowley dismissed, sniffling and scenting with his tongue in turn. “Oh, that smells tempting. What is it?”

“Onion bagel panini with prosciutto, arugula, cheddar, and scrambled eggs.” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley grinned. “I’m hungry already. What a treat.”

Aziraphale sighed, but it was one of relief, which made Crowley utter a questioning noise. “Well,” the angel began, “I didn’t have any expectation that you would eat, since you ate so much duck last night that you felt nauseous.”

Crowley rubbed his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder like a cat marking its owner. “I did, but only because it tasted so good. Had you been a demon of Gluttony, you could make any human, or angel for that matter, stray from the path of Good.”

Aziraphale snorted, gently rapping his fingers against Crowley’s hand in light irritation. “Oh, do shut up, Crowley.”

“Isn’t a bad thing at all, angel,” Crowley replied. “Think the duck fortified me. I’m not as tired as I would be from going downstairs.”

The angel turned to Crowley, glowing like a sun. “Oh, really?” His voice was filled with such outright joy and relief that Crowley had to kiss him again, thoroughly. And it was a delight to do so, to remind his husband that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he was well and safe, that he would always be there for his angel.

“Really,” Crowley confirmed. “Can we have breakfast in the sun room? I want to take a look at my indoor plants.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale replied, gently connecting their lips for a short and sweet kiss. “Can you manage? I should make sure these don’t burn.”

Crowley nodded, smiling. The sun room wasn’t far, and it was the warmest room in the cottage. Besides, he missed his plants dearly.

~

The sun room had a glass roof that curved upright like the steeple of a church. (Crowley found its likeness ironic.) The room was arranged in a circle, with a couch and chairs in the center and bookshelves and plants lining the walls. The pair liked to have their meals here when they could. It was quite a beautiful room.

Crowley had his feet up on a freshly miracled outtoman, the formal couch he was lounging on made softer and warmer, as if it had sat for hours in the sun, and the snake in his soul loosened its muscles in pleasure. He’d finished his panini quite quickly, a surprising hunger overtaking him, and he was doing one of the things he loved best: watching Aziraphale eat. It was even better, he decided, to know the taste of what his angel was eating for himself. His tongue still tingled pleasantly from the spices of the prosciutto and the sharp taste of arugula, and the crisp jasmine tea was only helping it along. He could appreciate Aziraphale’s noises of appreciation even better, having tasted it himself.

Perhaps he could do so more often. It was certainly tempting, after being exhausted like this, and knowing Aziraphale noticed how thin his corporation had become over the years. He didn’t want his angel to worry, after all, and eating a few more meals was far from difficult. It might even make Aziraphale sleep beside him more often, if he could convince the angel he had a stomachache, anyway.

“You’re beautiful, you know,” Crowley mused dopily, not even trying to hide that he was drunk on love. 

Aziraphale flushed. “Well.” And then, he grew quiet, unsettled, and looked away. Crowley sat forward, letting his feet fall to the floor as he leaned towards his husband. “I’m not when I’m...wrathful.”

Crowley sighed, but fondly. “Are you still feeling guilty about that?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale cried, eyes wild with anxiety. “What if...I could’ve hurt them, Crowley. Anathema and Newton. I did hurt you. Quite badly. I could have discorporated you.” The angel sighed. “I couldn’t go on without you, Crowley. I’d walk into Hellfire before I breathed a day without you.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley leaned back, patting the space beside him. Once his love was seated beside him, the demon turned towards him and took his hand. “I know you would never hurt me enough to kill me. I know how much I mean to you. This,” he tilted his hand to show off his rings, “and all of this. You remembered a recipe from over 500 years ago just because I liked it so much.” He kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. “I love you. And I don’t mind if you burn me. You’re a sun, but I’m a star. I can take a little heat, if it means being closer to you.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly. “But I thought two stars created a black hole? Or somesuch.”

Crowley chuckled, running his hand through Aziraphale’s hair. “We’re a constellation,” he said. “Perfectly and completely mapped out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I really did spend like, five days writing a single chapter.
> 
> *coughs* It was for a good cause.
> 
> If you like my work, please check out my tumblr! (pastelbrachypelma.tumblr.com) I post Good Omens theories and reblog stupid shit I think is funny.
> 
> Kudos and comments make my day! Please and thank.

**Author's Note:**

> I remember seeing something on tumblr about the only person being able to calm down a really furious entity is the one they love, so...yeah. 
> 
> Playing fast and loose with Crowley's injuries because he's a demon and is surprisingly okay after losing major organ functions. Please don't try this at home. 
> 
> Might write a part 2 because I'm a sucker for a good caretaking fic, and it's just what the doctor ordered for these trying times.
> 
> I hope everyone is staying safe during the coronavirus. Much love!


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